Study in Blue
by Lossenrhos
Summary: An 18 year old Sherlock is about to start a new life. Mycroft, as always, is worried.


Study in Blue

**Disclaime**r: I do not own Sherlock.

**A/N**: This story is currently in an unbeta'd state. Concrit (or any other form of comment) is welcome.

Sherlock could tell that there would be some difficulty finding a parking space – the line ahead was slow moving and no wonder: the car park was clogged with suitcases, abandoned trolleys, and people _hugging_. A fat man in a luminous jacket gesticulated at them wildly to turn left (absurd decision, clearly that the traffic would be more easily dispersed if It was allowed to move n a clockwise direction.) He wound down the window to say so, but Mycroft clicked his tongue.

"Sherlock." he cautioned.

Sherlock huffed, but for once decided not to argue. He turned left and they waited with engine juddering, for the mess of cars in front to untangle itself.

"And I thought Cambridge Dons were supposed to be intelligent." Sherlock snaps.

"Where did you get that idea?" Mycroft smiles thinly. He hasn't quite forgiven Sherlock for choosing Cambridge over his own beloved Oxford. For someone so rational, Mycroft had a truly absurd way of dependence on that tired old rivalry. _Tradition. _The act of clinging to established patterns of behaviour not because they had any intrinsic value, but because it allowed one to indulge in a patently false sense of security. You would think _Mycroft_ of all people would know better.

"I do believe," Mycroft says suddenly. "Dallerston has a nephew attending King's this year. If you like I could introduce-"

"No, thank you."

"I know you think you don't need friends, Sherlock, but I think you'll find…."

"Is that why you're here?" Sherlock interrupts him. "Trying to tie me in to the old boys' network? Or are you just looking for new recruits to spy on me?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

The car in front of them move a few feet forward. Sherlock revs his engine noisily, and lurches the car forward, braking just in time to avoid a collision. He is gratified to notice Mycroft's knuckles tighten on his umbrella handle.

"Why _are_ you here, then?"

Mycroft lets out a long slow breath.

"Worried that I'm going to disgrace you? It isn't Oxford; they won't _all_ know you here."

Mycroft turns an implacable face toward him. "That," he says flatly. "Has never been my concern."

"No?" Sherlock scoffs.

"No."

Sherlock switches off the engine (it's clearly going to be a while) and turns away, arms folded. Mycroft is a liar.

"You have correctly deduced," Mycroft voice is insistently soft. "That I am concerned. Sherlock. You are not going to find this – transition - easy."

Sherlock closes his eyes, and asks through gritted teeth "And how the _hell_ would you know that?"

"You haven't had experience of being among your peers, not since Ashford."

"That was _ten years ago_." Sherlock hits out at the steering wheel, inadvertently letting out a sharp blast of sound. The woman in front turns around, scowls at him.

"I know." Mycroft looks away. "But-"

"_But _I can manage, Mycroft. I understand people much better now."

Mycroft says nothing.

"I do spend time with my peers, my homeless network….."

"I don't believe they still refer to them as peers if you have to pay them to speak to you."

"I don't pay them for conversation, I pay them for information. Exactly how many friends do _you_ have, brother dear?"

"I can handle myself."

"Ican handle myself, too Mycroft! This isn't like Ashford – I understand people much better now. I know how to read them."

Mycroft is silent.

Sherlock drums his fingers on the steering wheel, trying but failing to hold back the inevitable – useless – diatribe.

"I can prove it to you –look at the car in front. It's a nice car, you'd think they were a wealthy family, wouldn't you? Except look at the spots of mud under the tailpipe, that's thick mud, winter mud, the car hasn't been _properly_ cleaned since last February. And that suitcase, over three years old but no tags, these people can't even afford a holiday abroad – and they'd _love_ to go, look at the mother's fake tan."

Mycroft had his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, an expression either of exasperation of an oncoming migraine. But Sherlock can't stop.

"They don't have enough money for the class they aspire to but are intelligent enough to put up a creditable imitation. Their daughter – of course it is a daughter, look at the the window sticker - got here on a scholarship, although I expect she'll lie about that because her parents have taught her that is the correct thing to do."

"And _this_ is how you intend to make friends." Mycroft states flatly.

Sherlock stares back at him, stung. "I don't know _what_ makes you think that."

Mycroft lowers his hand, breathes out, hard. "The queue is starting to move again."

He is right. The car in front of them is already moving steadily forward. Sherlock restarts the car again with a muttered curse.

Once they have finally found a parking space, Sherlock goes to the porters lodge to register and pick up his keys. Mycroft waits by the car, flexing his legs gingerly, as if he'd been sitting cramped for days not the mere hour it had taken for Sherlock to drive from London. He watches Sherlock load the bags onto the trolly he's been assigned without offering to help.

"Can I help you find your room?" A girl in an oversized college hoodie bounces over. Sherlock shoots her a quick look – blonde hair, chipped nails, traces of frayed tissue paper o n her sleeve, no jewellery but the indentation on the back of her neck where a chain had been hung. Ashe has been crying all morning, most likely the result of a recent relationship break up, Sherlock concludes. Still, her smile is bright and enthusiastic now, probably some kind of chemical effect – endorphins released after a crying jag. He will have to look it up.

"I don't think we need-" he begins.

"That would be lovely, thank you." Mycroft cuts him off.

The girl beams, "Wonderful, if you'll tell me the room number?" Sherlock shows her the key he's been given (E23) and she leads the way, cheerily chatting to Mycroft about college tradition as Sherlock pushes the trolly in their wake.

The room turns out to be an attic room, situated at the top of a flight of well worn wooden stairs. Mycroft and Sherlock brings the lugguage up, one by one (Mycroft, of course, takes picks the lightest boxes to carry, and moves maddeningly slowly). The girl offers to help, but both brothers wave her aside, a thoroughly hypocritical show of chivalry. At last, Sherlock is moved in.

"You're a bit isolated." The girl admits looking around at the bare room. "This room is usually bottom of the housing ballot – it's one of the most unpopular rooms," She explains to Mycroft, quite unnecessarily "Even though it's so big. The draft tends to come in from the old fireplace (you aren't allowed to use it, health and safety). And, of course, because it's an attic room the ceiling slopes."

Mycroft wrinkles his nose. "Well. There must be other rooms available. I'll have a word with the accommodations office…"

"I like this one." Sherlock says, decisively

"But -"

"I like it."

There is a brief silence while the girl in the hoodie glances from Sherlock to Mycroft, obviously confused by the sudden tension in the air.

"Well I – had better go and see if anyone else needs help," she says , at last. "Sherlock, I hope you have a great time settling in. If you need any help with anything, I'll be about. My name's Emma Starling. I'm welfare officer here, so any problems just let me know."

"Thank you, you have been very kind." Mycroft says unctuously. Sherlock rolls his eyes. The girl blinks at him, and then leaves. They hear her feet echoing away on the wooden stairs.

"I do hope you will wrap up warmly." Mycroft says at last. "You know how susceptible you are to respiratory infections." he jabs at the empty fireplace with the umbrella.

Sherlock walks to the window, a dirty skylight set low in the sloping ceiling. He can see down into the main quadrangle, - if he cranes his head a little he can see entrance to the dining hall. Useful for surveillance. Sherlock watches as a knot of students emerge, two well built young men in blazers, a girl carrying in armful of books. One of the boys bends to say something in her ear, and she throws back her head, laughing. Supposedly, this place contains the most intelligent young people of his generation – the top five per cent, this generation's big thinkers. A haven for the gifted. He traces a finger down the window pane, eyes fixed on the group below. They look so ordinary.

He glances back at Mycroft, who is still frowning down into the empty fireplace as if he might find the answer to some pressing question there.. His suit is too tight; he's put on a whole five pounds since Mother's funeral.

Abruptly, Sherlock turns to the pile of boxes in the corner, yanking out his violin case from underneath a jumble of clothes. Mycroft looks at him tiredly.

"Must you?"

"What better way to christen the room?" _And make you leave_ Sherlock grins at his brother, and draws his bow out of the case. "Some _Bach_ is called for, I believe."

Mycroft holds out his hand in defeat. "Later. I must go."

"I'll see you to the car." Sherlock is all smiles.

On the way back down the stairs they bump into another knot of people coming up. The Starling girl is coming back up again, this time accompanied by a boy with floppy hair and expensive jeans, and just behind them, a couple - woman: tall, silk scarfed, elegantly made up – eyes slightly red. Man: broad shouldered, large belly, evidently once a keen rugby player, now running to fat. The boy's parents, evidently.

"Ah, Sherlock!" The Starling girl does a creditable impression of being pleased to see him again. "Meet Sebastian – he'll be living on the landing below you."

The boy steps forward with a practised smile and outstretched hand "Sebastian Wilkes."

Sherlock looks down at his new neighbour through narrowed eyes. He is from one of the larger public schools, clearly, Sherlock can tell that from the way he holds himself, and his tone of voice (he's watched Mycroft practising this exact stance and smile in front of a mirror on holidays home from Harrow). His clothes are expensive but carelessly worn. His blazer is clearly not more than a week old but already has a bleach stain near the collar, probably from some form of peroxide based acne treatment. There is a blonde hair –_dyed_ blonde, dark roots showing, clinging to his shoulder, and the skin at the corner of his mouth glistens very slightly. He has said goodbye to a women recently, _not_ his mother, whose lipstick is clearly the more expensive colourfast brand, and whose hair is brown. Could be an aunt, but probably a girlfriend, judging by the slight chapping of the boy's lips, one who is either passionately disposed toward him, or anxious to leave a lasting impression – with good reason – she is probably considerably below him in terms of socio economic status, judging by her taste in cosmetics.

Behind him, Mycroft clears his throat. Sherlock looks down and remember he is supposed to take the boy's hand. He reaches out.

"Sherlock. Holmes."

"What good luck that we met each other right away! I was looking forward to meeting my neighbours." (The boy's eyes, Sherlock notices, flick back toward the jean clad backside of the Starling girl. So much for the girl from the wrong side of the tracks.)

"Not neighbour, technically, I believe I live above you." He corrects, although he is aware it isn't necessary.

The boy glances at Mycroft, hovering behind Sherlock. "This is my mother and father." He gestures behind him.

With his peripheral vision Sherlock is aware or Mycroft tilting his head slightly, as if to say _here's your chance to prove me wrong._

Sherlock turns back with a grin to mirror Sebastian's. "Simply _splendid_ to meet you." He effuses, shaking hands with the father, and then moving to the mother. Is it correct to shake a woman's hand? In the end he takes it in his and bows over it. It's a bit flowery as a gesture, but the woman seems to enjoy it, the corner of her mouth quirks a little.

Mycroft has taken a step forward as well, and Sherlock takes the hint, "Do meet my brother, Mycroft."

Sebastian's father immediately perks up at this, lifting his heavy head to peer into the gloom of the corridor. "Mycroft Holmes is it? Well, I've heard all about _you_. One of our new up and comers, I've heard."

"Yes? How kind of you to say so." Mycroft preens, pushing past Sherlock to advance on the Wilkes man. Sebastian rolls his eyes at Sherlock, a gesture which Sherlock supposes implies some kind of fellowship in the face of this grown up talk.

"So Sherlock, you play any sports?"

"Not usually. Although I am fond of running." Sherlock answers honestly.

"Yeah? I'm a cricket man myself – batsman by preference. What school were you at, by the way?"

Sherlock feels suddenly and abruptly that the staircase is far too narrow and airless for so many human bodies.

"Mycroft, don't you need to get going?" he says. Mycroft glances impenetrably at Sherlock for a moment, and then nods. "I'm afraid a full evening's work lies ahead of me." He smiles. "Charmed to meet you, Sir, do drop by my club next time you are in town. Ma'am."

"I'll see you around." Sebastian calls back as they retreat. Sherlock bares his teeth in a smile. His heart is still thumping unpleasantly. Stupid not to have anticipated that question.

He would have to think up a satisfactory answer and quickly.

Mycroft's frown deepens as they walk back toward the car park. Somehow Sherlock finds the silence oppressive. It makes him wonder if Mycroft noticed Sherlock's fumble over the school- of _course _Mycroft noticed it. Sherlock searches for a distraction.

"Looking forward to the drive back?" Sherlock knows Mycroft detests driving – it was one of the reasons he insisted n taking an unchauffeured car. If Mycroft was determined to accompany him, Sherlock was going to make sure he suffered for it.

Mycroft only smiles that particular smile of his, as if acknowledging a hit scored by an opponent.

"I shall manage."

There is a silence. They reach the car, and Mycroft stops and turns to look at him, intently. Sherlock braces himself for the inevitable avalanche of 'concern'. "If you need anything, you can call my assistant. You remember the number?"

"Of course." Sherlock says loftily.

"She will be able to locate me at any time. I have moved some money into your account, it should see you through term."

Sherlock bristles. "I have my scholarship money, I don't need any of yours."

"Ours, Sherlock. Mother left it to me in trust, for both of us to use."

"Mother left it _in trust_ to you because he didn't _trust_ me." Sherlock says, viciously. "I don't need it."

Mycroft sighs. "Well. It is there – in case you ever change your mind."

"I won't."

Sherlock takes the car keys out of his pocket and throws them to his brother.

"Drive carefully." he says with sarcasm (Mycroft drives at a speed rarely achieved by any but the most ambitious tortoises).

Mycroft eyes the keys with an expression of disgust and then puts them in his pocket. "Sherlock-"

Suddenly he makes a motion with his hand, and for a frightening moment Sherlock wonders if he is about to reach out a hand and touch him. But no, he is reaching into his pocket, pulling something out. A parcel, neatly wrapped (no doubt by Mycroft's assistant.) Sherlock unwraps it gingerly.

"A scarf."

"I had it made for you. Cambridge blue."

"With a stripe down the middle - _Oxford_ blue." Sherlock points out.

Mycroft smile resembles a Cheshire cat. "Good luck, Sherlock."

Sherlock fingers the scarf. The material is soft between his fingers.

"I won't need luck."

"Of course not."

Mycroft's eyes gleam momentarily, as he gets into the car. Sherlock watches his brother start up the car and (so slowly) pull out, the old car juddering away through the now empty car park, before heading back.

Just outside the college Sherlock stops for a brief moment looking up at the ornate façade rising up in front of him, windows glowing with yellow against the grey stone. His new college. His new _home_. He finds himself shivering, and absently he wraps the scarf around his neck, pulling it tight before heading back inside.


End file.
